C'est la Guerre
by Afalstein
Summary: Paris, 1942. The City of Lights has grown dark. A lone man waits in a gloomy alley, heart aching as he watches the lit windows above, watching and dreading the moment when they go out. Life has grown hard and cold, but that... that is war.
1. Winter, 1942

**Winter, 1942**

It was torture to be standing in the street like this, and not just because of the cold wind whistling through his thin jacket. No, it was torture because of the glowing window on the far side of the street, and because of what he could see through it. The golden hair, the bright eyes, the laughing mouth… he could see them all by the window's light, and they tore at his insides. Yet he dreaded even more the moment when that light would finally go out.

He blew on his hand and stamped his feet a little to get the blood flowing again. Even here in the alley, sheltered as it was from the wind, the chill was something deadly. He wound the scarf a little tighter around his face and turned his watering eyes away from the window for a moment.

Paris, the city of lights, was dark. The window which tormented him was the only open one on the streets. All the others were shuttered, boarded up, or simply overhung with drapes. Little cracks of light could be glimpsed, but nothing sufficient to light up the street. Even the street lights overhead were dark, and the once-bright image of the Effiel Tower, which had shown in on Hugo so many nights in his childhood, was simply a looming silhouette against the sky, lit up occasionally by the roving searchlights.

It was not silent—not quite yet. Not even curfew and blackout could silence the city. The thousand sounds of the city still echoed through the streets—cats, slamming shutters, a drunk's roving song, the sound of an automobile's engine. And, of course, regular as ever, the far-off rumble of the trains.

Even amid war, the trains still ran. And even amid war—Hugo fished his watch from his pocket—clocks still ran. It was a comfort to know that, at least.

The light in the window went out. Hugo closed his eyes and rocked against the wall, trying to quiet the dull ache in his soul. Again he checked his watch. It would take probably an hour for them to finish.

Years ago, he remembered with a smile, he had stood in a cold street just like this, staring up at a lit window with the same golden-haired girl. Then he had thought his life hard, if not cruel.

He had never guessed exactly how cruel life could be.

At times he wondered if things would have better, if he would have been happier, if he had never stood in that street and called that girl down to him. Perhaps he would still be living in the train station. Perhaps he would have been sent to the Orphanatory, to be adopted—or not.

He sighed and blew on his fingers. What did it really matter? The war would still have come.

The sound of a door closing jerked his attention back to the house. The golden-haired girl was stepping out into the snow, a light coat wrapped around her slim frame, a scarf wound around her face. She walked out into the street hesitantly, as if wondering which way to go.

Hugo quickly moved out of the alley and beckoned to her.

She practically ran into his arms, sending both of them crashing back into the alley. "Hugo!" She whispered.

"Isabelle." He murmured, stroking her hair. She felt warm, soft.

"I am sorry. He was so... so talkative tonight. I could not get away."

"It is alright, _ma petite chere_." He whispered. "What did he say?"

She shook her head. "Little things...stupid things. Stories the guards at work tell about their women. This Jew that he and his friends threw out into the street the other day. A promotion he expects to be getting."

"A promotion is good." Hugo nodded. "A captain hears more than a lieutenant, and says more."

"Y-yes." She nodded. Drawing back a little, she seemed to concentrate. "He... he did say... He said there was a shipment of weapons being moved to Cologne next week. By train, though he did not say which one. And some prisoners that are being moved from the Detarde's house."

"Which ones? Where?" Hugo asked eagerly.

"He didn't say which ones, only that they were being moved, to a... a camp in Germany, I believe." She bit her lip, then looked up at him. "But... Hugo... Gustave is not one of them. He says they brought out Gustave and some others to the forest and shot them."

_Gustave._ Hugo leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing the man's neat little mustache, his clipped way of speaking, the stubborn way he dragged his bad leg along. He could even see Gustave in his neat blue uniform, gold buttons shining and cap primly adjusted, even though goodness knew the man hadn't been station inspector for years. He should never have come with them on the raid. But he'd insisted, just as he'd insisted to be left behind when his leg broke apart and the shouts were coming nearer.

Hugo'd known Gustave since he was a small boy, dodging around the train station. And now he was dead.

Isabelle pulled him close. "I am so sorry, Hugo." She murmured. "Would you like me to tell Lisette?"

"No," Hugo managed to say. Lisette... yes, _bon Dieu_, Lisette would have to be told. But not by Isabelle. "You cannot be seen talking with her." That, and it was his responsibility. True, Gustave had led the squad, but Hugo had made Gustave's leg, and it was that leg that had gotten Gustave captured.

Isabelle gave out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Of course. She probably wouldn't want to talk with me anyway."

Hugo tried to think of something comforting to say, but he could think of nothing. So he just hugged her back, and the two of them stood in the cold wind, holding onto each other.

At length Isabelle pulled away a little. "I... I should go." She said. "Hans will miss me."

There was a long silence. _Don't,_ Hugo wanted to say. _Stop all this, and come away._ "Yes, you should." He agreed, letting his arms drop to hold her hands.

Still she lingered, breathing hard in the cold wind. She closed her eyes and shivered, and her mouth trembled.

Hugo gripped her by the shoulders. "It is a good thing you are doing for us, Isabelle." He told her. "A great thing."

But she shook her head. "If you could have heard him tonight!" She burst out. "Talking about Gustave like he was some animal... laughing about how he limped up the hill... and he is so STUPID, Hugo, and I feel dirty just speaking with him..."

"Shhh..." Hugo cupped her face in his hands. "It will be alright Isabelle. It will all be all right."

She looked at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "I thought..." Her mouth quirked in a dreadful attempt at a smile. "I always thought... that being a spy would be so romantic."

A little chuckle burst from Hugo despite himself. For a moment he had a vision of the old Isabelle, perched high on a book ladder, lost in the slim volume she was reading, brow furrowed and her lips just slightly parted.

But that was another world.

"You must go now, _mon chere_." He told her, giving her a light peck on the cheek. It was all they had time for, now. As she nodded and started to move away, he called out to her: "Isabelle... do not ride the trains tomorrow."

Already out in the street, she turned to look at him, shrouded in the darkness of the alley. "Hugo..." Her eyes were troubled.

"Tomorrow will be a bad day to ride the trains." He nodded. "I would stay at home. And ask... Hans again about the weapons. I think his plans for them may change."

She closed her eyes, but she nodded. With a last, lingering look, she trotted across the street and back to the door. It closed behind her with a muted click, and for a long moment there was silence in the street. Then he heard sounds from upstairs: faint questions, and laughing answers.

Hunching his shoulders, Hugo pulled his cap over his head and walked down the alley. He could stand to listen to no more, and there was much to do before the daylight. Each had their own role in the machine of war, he as much as Isabelle.

The cold wind howled fiercely about him as he disappeared into the night.

* * *

**A/N:** Hugo was a beautiful movie, and a nearly perfectly self-contained one. And part of the problem with perfectly self-contained movies is that there's not much fiction you can write about it. But the Fridge Horror board on TVtropes reminded me that there is indeed a logical next part to the story-Hugo and Isabelle in WW II. George Milies, in case you're curious, died in 1938, before the war even started, but Hugo and Isabelle would be in their early twenties.

On a side note, I AM very proud of how the cover to this story turned out. I drew it myself, and I quite like how it looks.


	2. Summer, 1944

**Summer, 1944**

A cut-glass lamp crashed to the floor as Isabelle scrambled about the room, shoving her things into a bag. Her golden hair was bound up behind her in hairpins, and she was wearing a rough coat over a simple dress. Everything was ready, but she couldn't leave Mama Jeanne's locket, and the little clasp that she'd gotten in fifth grade, and the book that Mssr. Labisse had given her, and...

The pounding on the door downstairs intensified. "We know you're in there, Isabelle Milies!" cried a harsh voice. "Come out, you little_ tasspe_!"

Shouts rose in agreement, and rocks began to thud against the side of the house's walls. Isabelle frantically laced up the bag and dashed down the hall. They were sure to be watching the back door already, but the roof... they wouldn't think of the roof. She tore open the attic door and mounted the ladder, pushing open the loose section of the tile and clambering outside.

The sun was shining brightly down on gay Paris. The skies were blue, the clouds were white, and the glorious Eiffel Tower seemed to glow with a new life. Music was floating up from the street, raucous cheers filled the air, and everywhere you could see ribbons and flags flying—the glorious tricolor flag of France, that had not been seen in four long years.

An angry shout raised Isabelle from her happy reverie. "There! There! The _poufaise_'s on the roof!" It was Lisette in the street, her finger furiously jabbed upwards, a score of upward-staring faces around her. "_Nique ta mere,_ you German_ tasspe_!"

Isabelle's heart broke, but she could spare no time. She could already hear the door breaking downstairs, and could see others in the street making for the fire-escapes. Quickly she shimmied along the wall, picking up the board she'd stored against the chimney. It bridged the gap to the other roof nicely, and she dashed across, kicking it away as she stepped onto the other side. The shouts were traveling behind her, following her progress. She ran across the flat roof, silently cursing her skirt. At least she wasn't wearing her heels. THAT would be a nightmare.

The buildings in this row were very close, most of them ran right against each other without even an alleyway between. Some were taller, and their roofs had to be reached with a ladder. Others were shorter, and could simply be dropped onto. Isabelle made her way across the roofs as quickly as she could, taking care to stay away from the edges. Already her hair was coming loose from its pins, and her face was flushed with the exertion. Always the shouts followed. Perhaps they were fainter, but not nearly faint enough—Mdm. DeCarde's house was the last on the row, after that the street took a sudden turn and headed up the hill. She would have to climb down and run in the street. But Lisette's angry yell was far too close...

In a surge of desperation, she crossed over to the far left side of Mdm. DeCarde's roof, away from the street. It would give her only a minute or two of delay, but perhaps that would be all she needed.

There! A fire escape! Quickly she clambered down, practically leaping down the stairs. The ladder did not quite reach the ground, but she let go and stumbled to the floor of the alleyway. Already she could hear them charging up the alley to her right, but straight ahead was the light of the street, filled with the noise and cheers of the celebration. Isabelle ran for it.

As she neared the end of the alley, she checked her pace, slowing down just enough so she could step gracefully into the street. Giving her golden hair a cautious pat, she forced a smile to her face and started to weave her way through the crowd, as quickly as she dared.

"Stop her!" shouted Lisette's voice. Isabelle forced down the rising panic and kept walking. Perhaps Lisette had not seen her, perhaps the others would not know who she meant... "She's a spy! That golden haired_ pouffaise_, there!"

Isabelle gave a little sob and broke into a run, but grasping hands seized her from every side and held her fast. The street that before had been so bright and full of smiles was now filled with dark, angry faces. They beat her, kicked her, tearing at her hair and clothing. The bag was ripped from her grasp, and she felt someone spit in her face.

"No... please!" She managed, as rough arms dragged her across the cobblestones, her feet scrambling for a purchase. "You don't understand! I'm with the Resistance! I..."

The crowd suddenly gave way to a small circle of some kind. She could hear the people about her chanting, an odd clicking sound, and... someone crying. Some women.

They pushed her to her knees. Her clothes were half-gone already, ripped to pieces by the mob, but now they stripped her of the rest, leaving her trembling in her undergarments before the crowd. She glanced about in terror, taking in the scene.

Alouette, Jean-Marie, and Mdm. Gastion were all kneeling alongside her, stripped as she was, wailing as barbers shaved away their hair. Mdm. Gastion was already nearly bald, with only rough tufts remaining of her once-beautiful hair. All around, in a pressing circle, the angry crowd shouted in approbation as the pile of shavings grew.

There was a sharp snip behind her and Isabelle stiffened in horror at the sudden lightening of her head. "No!" She cried, struggling fruitlessly. "Wait! Talk to Hugo Cabret, he will...!"

"Don't struggle, _petite tasspe_, or I might cut off something more important by accident," sneered the barber.

The cold sense of this seized her, and she went limp in her captors' hands. Even if she could break free, where could she go? It was not so bad, she told herself, as the _snip-snip_ continued behind her, and she felt the locks of hair falling to the street. She had feared execution, or being beaten to death. It was not so bad... She felt the razor rasp against her skull and closed her eyes and wept.

"Stop! Stop it! Stop this instant, you idiotic bastards!"

Isabelle's eyes flew open and her head shot up as Hugo came pushing through the crowd. He was wearing a tricolored armband and he was flanked by several men with guns. "This woman is an informant for the Resistance, you pig!" He yelled, shoving the barber away from her. The men on either side of her let go in bewilderment, and the chanting faltered. "She has contributed valuable intel to the Free French Army over the years!" Reaching forward, he pulled Isabelle to her feet and, taking off his coat, draped it over her shoulders. "She does not belong here."

Isabelle hugged the coat about her body and looked up at Hugo. She tried to stop crying, but the tears kept coming, and her frame shook with repressed sobs. He studied her face with care, and his eyes hardened, but he simply put an arm around her. "Come." He said.

Isabelle, still crying, leaned into him and followed. The circle parted before them, and they passed through. But as they did so, Isabelle happened to look up and catch the eye of Alouette.

It should not have bothered her, the look in the girl's eyes.

"Hugo..." she could not help whispering. "...the others?"

But Hugo did not answer, and the crowd closed behind them, resuming the chant.

* * *

**A/N:** As the Allies advanced and the Nazis fled, many liberated towns filled with mobs of angry patriots exacting their own form of vengeance on traitorous countrymen who had collaborated with the Germans. Men were generally shot, women-both in France, Holland, and other places-were stripped and shaved in public before being paraded through the streets with swastikas painted on their heads. Of course, some of these women were spies, but many were simply girls who had fallen in love-or at least slept-with German officers.

Pardon my French in this chapter-particularly if you understand French, though of course THAT begs the question why you studied those terms. I'm not going to provide translations... look them up if you want. Interestingly, French for "idiotic bastards" is essentially "idiota bastarda," hence why Hugo is the only one who doesn't insult in French here. I also apologize for the somewhat dark subject matter, particularly in a fandom for such a lighthearted children's movie.

But hey. That's war.


End file.
